Meth

Meth had always been different. He wasn’t like the guys in movies who threw out smooth lines or the ones who looked at every girl like a conquest. He was steady, quiet in a way that made people wonder what went on inside his head. And when he loved, he did so with a depth that terrified him.

You had fallen for that about him—the way he was so careful, so deliberate in everything he did. The way he held your hand like it was something sacred, kissed you as if it was the last time every time. But sometimes, careful felt like distance. Like a wall he refused to let you cross.

The first time you brought it up was almost a year into your relationship. You were lying beside him, the room dimly lit, his arm around you. You had leaned in, pressed your lips to his jaw, then lower, testing him. His breath hitched, but then he pulled away, cupping your cheek.

"Not yet," he had whispered, eyes apologetic.

The second time was after your second anniversary. You were both in his apartment, the rain tapping against the window. You kissed him with everything in you, fingers slipping under his shirt, desperate to be closer. But again, he stopped you—gentle, always gentle.

"I just… I want to wait," he said, voice strained.

The third time, you weren’t as patient. You sat on his lap, arms around his neck, eyes locked onto his. "Why?" you asked, searching his face.

"Because I respect you," he said, always the same answer. Always the same careful touch pulling you away.

Three years. Three years of waiting. Three years of "not yet." And now, here you were, lying on his lap, fingers teasing at his thigh, hoping for something—anything. But as expected, he carefully moved your hand away, frowning.

"Don’t," he said softly.

That was it. That was enough. You sat up, staring at him, your heart pounding as frustration surged through you.

"Am I ugly?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of every doubt you had buried. "Not sexy enough? Do you not like me that much? Or do you—" you hesitated, voice breaking. "Do you not actually love me?"

His reaction was instant. Pain flickered across his face, like your words had physically hurt him.

"Don’t," he whispered. Then, louder, "Of course, I love you. Too much. That’s why I—" he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I respect you.”

You let out a bitter laugh. "It's been three years, Meth. I don’t need respect. I need you."

And then, something shifted. A hesitation. A crack in the walls he had so carefully built.

"Is there someone else?"

His eyes widened. It was like you had just punched him straight in the gut.

"Are you serious right now?" His voice cracked slightly, frustration raw in his tone. Then, he swallowed hard, exhaling shakily before finally gripping your hand.

"I—I’ve never done it before, okay?" His voice was barely above a whisper, filled with uncertainty. “I’m a virgin. And I just—I don’t know, what if I mess up? What if I can’t make you happy? What if… you realize you could be with someone better?”